Abstract
Dimanch.
It was always after the second press when the volcanic spheres of ji kann shivered and convulsed, popped and splattered a horrid dance in the bowels of the vat, bagasse aflame, sweetened embers, the color of 3am, stain my feet. The king post that crowns the mill governs me no longer … today. My Sunday court is composed of the dew that washes yesterdays soot, the hibiscus wind that perfumes my neck and time. Time to kiss, sashay, carve new grooves in my calabash and tend to my earth. Time to scream and dance a new fissure in the system. Hydra-like cracks that adhere to the Code, but allow me a moment, a few hours on their Lord’s day to speak the order of my life.